


lonely hearts club

by tarcanza



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Romance, Salty Vice President Jack Eichel, Secret Admirer, Soft Student Body President Connor McDavid, Wooing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26108092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza
Summary: “What about candy grams?” This time it’s Darnell.“Why stop at candy?” Jack asks. “Like sure, it’s traditional, whatever. But we could add other stuff.”McDavid’s eyes are gleaming. “Handwritten love notes. Poems.”Jack feels his lips turn up into a smile. “How about more like anything? Anything people want for us to pull off, we’ll do it. They name their request, we give our price, and boom.”orIn which Jack Eichel, Student VP and his nemesis, Student Body President Connor McDavid, play Cupid for the students of Oakmont High, and Jack gets a secret admirer
Relationships: Jack Eichel/Connor McDavid
Comments: 79
Kudos: 96





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is dedicated to Winged_Beauty_16 for inspiring me to try my hand at McEichel <3 I'm having a GREAT time, thank you, love you!

“Thank you, Miranda,” McDavid says, smiling all _softly_ and shit and holy _fuck_ if Mr. and Mrs. McPerfect don’t stop giving each other fuck-me eyes within the next five seconds, Jack really might vomit all over the brand new student council table, the purchase of which _he_ authorized.

(They came in last month to find a giant cartoon dick drawn on the old one in purple sharpie—turned out the Orchestra kids co-opted the meeting room for their post-concert rager featuring some nightmare concoction brewed by Nolan Patrick that led to some questionable decision-making). 

Jack glowered. 

The whole thing was fucking _rude,_ honestly. If Jack knew he was going to be in danger of losing his lunch, he would’ve just _skipped_ the damn meal—he can feel his turkey sandwich lurching around in his stomach precariously.

“We need to talk about the Lonely Hearts Dance,” Jack said loudly because _someone_ needs to do their fucking job here, and it clearly isn’t going to be their illustrious Student Body President. 

McDavid’s gaze snaps from Miranda’s face to Jack’s.

_Bingo,_ Jack thinks. _It’s about damn time._

“Thank you, Jack,” McDavid says, smiling. _You’re welcome, you incompetent jackass,_ Jack thinks, but he keeps his mouth shut tight because for some god forsaken reason, the good people of Oakmont High actually _like_ and _admire_ the prick, so insulting him in front of student council — aka the rabid Connor McDavid fan club—would either get Jack 1) strangled or worse yet 2) kicked out of his VP role, which _fuck that,_ he needs this shit for college apps, okay? 

“Nicole, what does the current budget look like?” McDavid asks, turning to their Treasurer, who dutifully pulls up a colorful spreadsheet on her laptop.

“The current estimated cost for the dance is $3,280 including food, decorations, and the DJ. We need a cushion for an emergency fund. We have about $500 allocated from the current budget, but we need to make up the difference.”

“Thanks, Nicole,” McDavid says with another soft smile and _seriously,_ is this guy for real? Student council is already a prickly clusterfuck of political alliances and warring egos, McDavid doesn’t need to make it _incestuous_ too by banging his way through his squadron of admirers. 

“We could do a bake sale—” Ethan pipes up.

“No,” Jack says flatly. “Boring. Overdone. Plus, no way we make two grand off Julie’s chocolate chip cookies, as delicious as they are. Sorry, Julie,” he adds, because Julie’s looks a little miffed—she’s one of the only people in student counc-hell who isn’t a McDavid worshipper, so he can’t afford to make her upset. 

“Car wash?” Leon suggests, and _Jesus Christ_ aren’t these supposed to be the _bright ones_ at this school, they can’t do a car wash, it’s the middle of Janu—

“That’s a great suggestion, Leon, but I think it might be a little cold for a car wash,” McDavid says pleasantly. “I don’t want anyone getting sick from standing outside and getting wet.”

Well. Okay. At least boy-wonder has _some_ sense. And a fair bit more diplomacy than Jack, he must admit—which is why McDavid deals with the more delicate matters involving interpersonal communication while Jack does the _actual_ important stuff. 

“What about candy grams?” This time it’s Darnell. And, well…

“That’s better than a bake sale…” Jack starts slowly. More efficient. More people likely to participate. Pretty easy to orchestrate. 

“Student council did it last year, and it was pretty successful,” McDavid says thoughtfully. “But they did have to supplement it with other fundraising ideas.”

Jack’s mind is spinning. What if—

“Why stop at candy?” Jack asks. “Like sure, it’s traditional, whatever. But we could add other stuff.”

McDavid looks at him, assessing. “We could add flowers, maybe, yeah. Up the charge. That’s a good idea.” 

“Serenades? Even though I would promptly murder anyone who got a group of high schoolers to sing to me, some people would be into that shit,” Jack says. Yeah, he’s really warming up to this.

McDavid’s eyes are gleaming. “Handwritten love notes. Poems.”

Jack feels his lips turn up into a smile. “How about more like anything? Anything people want for us to pull off, we’ll do it. They name their request, we give our price, and boom.”

McDavid’s full-on smiling at this point. “We can set up a Google form where people can send requests. And oh!” he says, snapping his fingers. “We can set it up so we’ll be able to take anonymous requests, so if people have a crush or something, they can send stuff as a secret admirer.”

“Not bad, McDavid,” Jack says, impressed despite himself. McDavid beams back at him.

“Uh, guys?” Ethan asks hesitantly. Jack looks away from McDavid. Oh. The entire room is staring at them, mouths slightly parted. Jack flushes a little. “This is great,” Ethan says. “But, um, it sounds like a lot of work, maybe?”

Jack levels a stare at him. “Do you have a better idea for raising over two grand?” he asks calmly. 

Ethan opens his mouth and then closes it. “Uh, no?” he says meekly. 

“Well, then,” Jack says pleasantly, not bothering to finish the rest of his sentence because it’s pretty clear to everyone that it’s _shut the fuck up._ “Listen, our budget is fucked,” he says bluntly. “I know no one wants to say it, but it’s true. We’ve had some, um, _unforeseen expenses_ ”—case in point, giant ass, brand-spanking new table— “So if we want to have a dance at _all_ this year, we’re gonna have to take some drastic fucking measures. So I’m gonna need everyone to step it the fuck up, okay?”

McDavid coughs delicately. “Yes, um, as Jack here was saying, we’re in a bit of a tight spot financially. So we don’t have too many options. This is going to be an all-hands on deck situation, but listen—I have complete faith in you guys, okay?”

Jack struggles not to roll his eyes. Great. Here we go again. Inspirational speech time. 

“We’re coming into this at a disadvantage, but you guys are some of the most hard-working, talented, people I know,” McDavid continues. Everyone that was sending Jack dirty little looks when he made his— _very_ valid—points suddenly has these like, _smitten_ looks in their eyes. Holy fuck. “And I know if we work hard at this, we can throw the _best_ Lonely Hearts Dance the school has ever seen,” he finishes.

The worst part is, McDavid sounds like he _believes_ it—that’s the most dangerous thing about Connor McDavid. He really and truly buys into his kumbaya, world-peace shit. And he has a funny way of making other people buy into it too—people are actually nodding and _smiling_. Jack channels his inner Machiavelli to McDavid’s MLK and tries not to be _too_ annoyed because, well, the ends justify the means and all that—he’ll sit through McDavid’s disgustingly cheery pep talks if it means making the Cupid thing happen. 

“Jack and I will handle the biggest requests.” Which _what_ , thanks for the warning, McDemon. “And I’ll send out an assignment sheet tonight for who’s designated to fulfill the most common requests, like candy and flowers and stuff. We’ll have this run over the next few weeks up until Valentine’s Day. I need everyone to keep their phone notifications on for the group chat—Jack and I will be in constant communication.” 

Oh great. Jack should’ve kept his damn mouth shut because apparently he’s now spearheading this whole thing with McDavid, _and_ he has to interact with the cursed group chat? 

“This is going to be great, guys!” And then the fucker actually claps his hands together. 

Great. 

_Sure_.


	2. Chapter 2

**McDemon and the McMinions 🤠🔫**

**Connor McDemon:** Hey guys, assignments have officially been sent out!! 😊 7:42 PM

 **Connor McDemon:** Also btw our official email is cupidcouncil@gmail.com! password is loveoakmont23. Obvs please don’t tell anyone outside the council the account info!! 🤗 that's the email linked to the google form/requests! email/text will be going out to the school tomorrow letting everyone know the deal! we're opening up the requests in a few days and we're ~officially~ gonna start "cupid season" in a week--that's when we'll be following thru on the first batch of requests, so we have some time to prepare! 7:43 PM

 **Connor McDemon:** I know this is a LOT but you guys rock, we got this 👊🏻 also--please please please check your phone!! Can't stress this enough. Communication is key :) 7:43 PM

 **Leon Draisaitl (henchman #1): 🔥🔥🔥** lets gooooo 7:46 PM

 **Ethan 🐻 (henchman #3):** thanks for being so on top of this connor! 7:54 PM

 **miranda f (henchwoman #2):** looks good con <3 8:43 PM

 **Nicole🤑:** wooo💪🏽💪🏽 8:50 PM

 **Darnell Nurse** : nice bro 8:52 PM

 **Julie (normal):** cool 8:54 PM

 **Connor McDemon:** awesome, guys :) @jack you get everything? 8:57 PM

 **Jack:** yup 1:03 AM

* * *

“Jack!” 

Oh great. He genuinely thought he was going to escape AP Lit unscathed, but sure enough, those are the dulcet tones of Connor McDavid, probably about to trap him in a Cupid Committee-related nightmare.

 _You’ve made your bed,_ Jack’s brain reminds him helpfully. He turns around, resigned.

“Hey!” McDavid says. He’s clutching his backpack straps with both hands. The straps are way too short—they make the backpack sit up really high on McDavid’s back. It should make him look like a fucking dork—like, seriously, Jack’s not condoning _bullying,_ but, come on—and it _does,_ but it also makes him look earnest, or whatever? Unbelievable.

“Yes,” Jack responds flatly. 

“I’m going on a candy run for the candy-grams and I could use a hand,” McDavid says. “You have a free period, right?”

And right then and there, Jack sees his dreams of driving off campus for Chipotle wither and die before his very eyes. 

“What would you do if I told you I didn’t?” Jack says waspishly, just to be difficult. Wait—how the fuck does McDavid even know he has a free period anyway?

“Then I would say that your attendance grade for whatever class you always skip to hang out in the senior lounge right now is probably really poor,” McDavid says brightly, not missing a beat. “I see you there when I use the restroom during APUSH. Uh.” He goes a little pink. “Anyways, I texted you? In the group chat?” McDavid holds up his phone and gives it a little shake.

“Oh. That.” Admittedly, Jack _had_ pushed the whole Cupid scheme so he had no one to blame but himself. But the reality of waking up to 40+ messages from the McMinions chat caused him so much despair that he’d muted his notifications for it just to give himself some semblance of sanity. “I, er, haven’t gotten a chance to check my phone,” Jack lies, hoping McDavid didn’t see him playing Candy Crush at his desk before AP Lit started.

“Oh,” McDavid says, shifting a little. “Ok. Um. Well it’s kind of our main channel of communication, and you’re kind of the co-chair of this whole thing, so…” He trails off. 

What. The. Fuck. Did McDavid just imply Jack was doing a bad job at his role? Motherfucker. He’s going to be the _king_ of this group chat.

Well, probably not. But he’s definitely going to be checking for every miserable update. 

“Fine,” Jack says shortly. 

“Right,” McDavid says. “So. Candy run?” He smiles hopefully, and what the fuck is Jack supposed to say? It’s his dignity at stake, here. 

“Okay, sure. I guess.”

McDavid keeps up a steady stream of polite talk all the way to his car despite Jack’s one-word answers. He doesn’t even seem _perturbed_ by it, just forges on ahead about the new initiative to replace the plastic straws in the cafeteria with paper ones, or whatever. 

“Any music requests?” McDavid asks when they’re both seated in his car. 

“Uh, not really,” Jack says before regretting it because oh god, he’d just given Connor McDavid full control over what his poor ears would be subjected to over the next, well, seven-ish minutes give or take to get to the nearest grocery store. But still—what if he puts on country? Oh god, he’s going to put on country, isn’t he? McDavid looks like the type. 

This is all Jack’s fault for ignoring a crucial life lesson—never pass up the chance to control the AUX cord. Well, the metaphorical AUX cord, really, because McDavid just shrugs and pulls up his Spotify through bluetooth.

Frank Ocean fills the car. Huh. Okay, McDavid. Bit of an odd choice for 10 in the morning, but as long as there’s not a bearded man warbling on about whiskey and tractor trailers and stuff, Jack’s happy. 

“So, are you excited about the whole Cupid thing?”

Jack stifles a sigh. _No_ , he’s not excited about catering to the whims of a group of hormonal teenagers. What kind of a question is that?

“It’s most likely going to be a nightmare,” Jack says honestly. “But we don’t exactly have a choice, do we? If you’re asking me if I’m excited to make the money we need, then yes.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees McDavid frown. “I don’t think it’s going to be a nightmare. It’ll be fun. And really sweet.”

Jack snorts. “A romantic, are you McDavid?”

McDavid goes a little pink. “Maybe.”

Figures. Golden boy with a propensity for chocolate and flowers and shit? McDavid was going to make some nice girl very happy one day. Miranda, probably. Or maybe Nicole.

Jack pictured McDavid and Miranda slow-dancing in the middle of the dance floor and promptly felt the urge to gag. 

“So, um, do you have anyone you’re gonna send a candy gram to? Or have us serenade?” McDavid jokes.

“As if I’d subject someone I was romantically interested to the horrors of the Cupid Committee,” Jack says, shuddering. “No, I will definitely not be soliciting Leon to sing a shitty love song to the object of my desires.”

McDavid gives a soft laugh. “Fair enough. But, uh, hey, maybe a card or something.”

Jack shakes his head. “Nah, there’s no one like that for me anyway.”

He peers out the window—they should be there by now, but they're not. 

“What about you?” Jack asks, because that’s only polite, he supposes, and McDavid’s been quiet for a few seconds. 

McDavid startles. “Oh! Uh, well, there is someone,” he says, a little pink flush dusting the tops of his cheeks. "But I don't think they're interested," he says quietly. 

"Pretty sure that's impossible, McDavid. You have everyone at this school wrapped around your finger. I'm sure they'll fall all over themselves when you send them a bag of Hershey's Kisses or whatever."

McDavid gives a little laugh. "Well, I kind of see them a lot, and I'm pretty much convinced it's not gonna be a thing, so..." He trails off.

So it was Miranda, huh? Well they'd certainly make a power couple—if McDavid didn't think she was into him, he was clearly blind. 

Jack swallows, steadfastly ignoring the weird little sinking feeling in his chest. "I think you're wrong about that," he says, voice coming out a little rougher than he'd like. "Also, can you drive _any_ slower? Seriously. You're going, like, _below_ the speed limit. This drive is only supposed to take seven minutes."

"Um, yeah, it's a speed _limit,_ aka the highest speed you should be going," McDavid points out, seemingly oblivious to the clusters of cars passing them by. "I'm just being cautious!" 

Jack groans. "Why are you such a boy scout?" Figures McDavid would drive like an old lady—which Jack should've anticipated if he'd spent even a minute to stop and think before getting in the car. "Next time, I'm driving." He means, if there is a next time. Hopefully there won't be. That would be terrible. 

McDavid just smiles. 

"Okay, Jack. Next time."

And then he actually starts humming under his breath. 

Christ. What was he so chipper for?

McDavid would never cease to baffle him. 

* * *

Turns out in addition to having distractingly floppy hair and an unerringly sunny disposition, McDavid also has a truly tragic taste in candy.

“No one actually _likes_ candy corn McDavid, what the fuck? It’s the stuff you feel disappointed to find when you stick your hand in a bowl of candy, eat anyway, and then feel sad because it _sucks_. Put the bag down,” Jack commands, jabbing his finger towards the shelves.

McDavid protectively holds the bag against his chest like he thinks Jack is actually going to physically take it away from him. “No,” he says mutinously, and _wow_ Jack is honestly impressed because he didn’t know that people-pleaser Connor actually knew that word. “Candy corn is a classic candy, we have to buy some.”

“Okay, _first of all,_ candy corn is a Halloween candy, McDavid, I can guarantee you that literally nobody is going to request it,” Jack says.

“I would,” McDavid insists. 

“Then that is a very poor reflection on your taste buds and general life choices,” Jack says. “Seriously, we have a budget here. Maximize the Reeses and Twix.” 

McDavid doesn’t respond because he’s scrolling through his phone, which, _rude?_

“Hello,” Jack says sharply. “I’m talking here!”

“Here!” McDavid says triumphantly, thrusting his phone into Jack’s face. “According to this study, candy corn is the fifth most popular candy.”

“No _way,_ ” Jack says immediately because candy corn? _Fifth?_ Over his dead body. “Give me that,” he demands, holding his hand out. “What was their methodology? Sample size? Method of data collection? If it was a survey, I’m going to need to see how it was worded.”

McDavid stares.

Jack sighs. “ _Fine_. We’ll get one bag of candy corn— _one bag_ —for the freaks like you, but no more unless people specifically request it, okay?” 

McDavid looks mulish for a second before conceding. “Okay,” he says sadly before putting the bag into the cart, and then he actually _stares wistfully_ at the candy corn on the shelf and _fuck,_ that’s just not playing fair—the soft blond hair, big blue eyes, the fucking _pout_. Jack feels like he kicked a golden retriever puppy. 

Jack wordlessly slides another bag of candy corn into the cart before stalking down the aisle to acquire the candy the people are _actually_ going to want. 

McDavid catches up with him as Jack is grabbing a value pack of Reeses. 

“Is that your favorite candy then?” he asks, pointing to the bag in Jack’s hands. 

Jack glances down. “No. But the people want what they want,” he says sagely. “I’m a fan of the M&M. Classic. Also popular,” he allows. “But Reeses is objectively god-tier when it comes to widely available candy.”

“Wait,” McDavid grabs something off the shelf, grinning. “Jack, we _have_ to get these!” he says gleefully, holding out a bag of—heart-shaped Reeses. Valentine’s Day edition.

“No,” Jack says immediately, because _fuck that._ “We have a budget, and _that,_ ” he jabs a finger at the offending bag of candy, “Is a marketing ploy designed to get people to shell out extra cash for the same product repackaged and reshaped into a gimmicky shape and we’re not falling for it.” He glares at the bag. Honestly, how dare they?

“Jack. Hearts. Valentine’s Day. It’s cute,” McDavid insists. “It’ll add a special touch.”

Jack raises a brow. “Exploitation is cute now?”

“Well I’m the President, and I want the heart-shaped Reeses, so…” McDavid trails off, blinking innocently.

Jack’s mouth falls open. “McDavid,” he says, impressed despite himself. “Did you just pull rank on me?”

McDavid grins sunnily at him, tossing the bag into the cart before sauntering off towards the sour candies, a little bounce in his step. Jack is still so shocked he completely forgets to remove the evil capitalist-heart-shaped Reeses bag from the cart before he follows after.

All in all, he’s having a pretty bad morning. 

Fucking McDavid. 


	3. Chapter 3

**McDemon and the McMinions 🤠🔫**

**Connor McDemon:** Requests are live, get hype!!! We will be discussing the first batch at meeting today :) 7:05 AM

 **miranda f (henchwoman #2):** sounds great! so excited ❤️ let’s make some dreams come true ppl!! 7:43 AM

 **Ethan 🐻 (henchman #3):** uh guys 8:54 AM

 **Ethan 🐻 (henchman #3):** we may have a problem 8:54 AM

 **Ethan 🐻 (henchman #3):** has anyone been looking at the non-standard anonymous requests form?? 8:54 AM

 **Connor McDemon:** oh no 9:15 AM

 **Ethan 🐻 (henchman #3):** yeah 😬 9:18 AM

 **Connor McDemon:** ok no one panic we’ll figure this out at meeting 9:20 AM

 **Jack:** LMAOOOO 9:30 AM

 **Connor McDemon:** very helpful jack 😑 9:35 AM

 **Jack: 😂😂** 9:37 AM

  
  


“Listen, guys, we couldn’t have seen this coming,” Connor says, all _conciliatory_ and shit. Almost every member of student counc-hell looks like someone kicked their puppy, staring at the open laptop screen morosely. 

“ _Suck my big horse dick. Payment offer: $1 million,”_ Leon reads, brows furrowed.

“I say we take them up on that offer,” Jack says cheerfully. “That would more than take care of our lonely hearts fiscal problems.”

Nicole leans over the table. “ _Bake and deliver Tkachuk senior a cake in the shape of my dick. Payment offer: $200,”_ she reads despairingly, quickly scrolling past the horrifying picture that had come attached to the entry. 

“The students at this school have an _alarming_ fascination with all things phallic. Also, that was _clearly_ sent by Doughty, the moron,” Jack says, shaking his head. Honestly. Hadn’t he heard of _tact?_ Of _subtlety?_

“ _Your mom. Payment offer: $1,”_ Darnell reads gravely. 

“Well that’s both unoriginal _and_ boring. Honestly, pick a struggle. If you’re going to attempt cheap humor, at least commit,” Jack says in disgust. They couldn’t have even made the payment offer $69? The students at this school are so disappointing. 

“I just don’t understand why they would do this,” Ethan says miserably, hanging his head. 

“It’s so mean,” Miranda says in agreement, lips turning down into an honest-to-god pout. 

Oh for _fuck’s sake._

“People,” Jack barks. “Stop taking this so personally. Teenagers are wild animals with highly questionable morals. What did you think would happen?” 

Everyone stares at him balefully. Jack sighs.

“ _Fine._ As the one realist in a group of nauseatingly cheery optimists, I will go ahead and say this one’s on me. We need to disable the non-standard anonymous requests form,” Jack says.

“But—” Julie starts before Jack cuts her off.

“No non-standard anonymous requests,” he repeats sternly. “We can keep the non-standard form up, but everyone who makes a request has to send it with their school email. That way, if people make stupid requests, we can ban them from submitting any more.”

“Um, does this mean we have to ban Ryan Kesler?” Ethan says hesitantly. “He requested fireworks? And, um, skywriting?” Ethan looks nauseous. “I really don’t want to ban Ryan Kesler.”

Jack snorts. “Something tells me that those requests have less to do with Kesler trying to intentionally sabotage us and more to do with the fact that he has one braincell.”

“Jack,” McDavid reprimands, but he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. “That’s not nice. But, uh, perhaps Ryan overestimated our abilities a little bit. Maybe.”

“You think?” Jack says innocently, bursting into snickers. 

“If we disable non-standard anonymous requests, people won’t do secret admirer stuff,” Miranda pouts, shooting a non-so-subtle glance at McDavid. 

Jack stifles the urge to sigh again. “People can still do secret admirer stuff. They can still do anon requests through the standard form. And people can still request that their identities be hidden if they want to do a nonstandard request, but they have to submit the request with their school email,” he explains patiently.

“But won’t that still discourage people from sending secret admirer requests?” Miranda says. “They won’t want to do it if they know we can see who they are. It’s, like, _embarrassing,_ knowing other people can see who your crush is. And losing secret admirer requests would _suck_ —it’s so romantic.”

Jack was about a second away from making a smart retort, except—Miranda looked genuinely _upset._ God help these romantic little shits. “Listen,” Jack says. “When we send out an email with the updated rules, we’ll make sure to add a clause about how everything sent to us is strictly confidential, okay? If anyone breaks the rules, they’ll—get suspended or something, I don’t know.” 

Miranda, surprisingly, looks a little less glum. “Okay,” she says slowly. “That actually makes sense. Thanks Jack.” She smiles.

“Er, you’re welcome?” Jack says, feeling completely thrown-off. 

“Okay, well, I think that solves our problem,” McDavid says, clapping his hands together. “The first batch of requests will close soon. If anything else comes up, I’ll text you guys. If something major comes up, we might have to meet again. But other than that, I think we’re good.” He beams at everyone, and everyone beams back. 

Ugh.

McDavid catches him just as Jack is about to escape—which is becoming a highly concerning pattern. Jack needs to get faster at packing his shit. 

“Yes, McDavid?” Jack drawls, trying to put on his best “I-have-places-to-be-and-you’re-preventing-me-from-being-there” look. McDavid, as always, looks undeterred. 

“I just wanted to congratulate you,” McDavid says brightly, falling into step with him. Great.

“On what, exactly?” Jack asks, trying to surreptitiously speed up. McDavid matches his pace perfectly. _Great._

“On really stepping up back there,” McDavid responds, shrugging. “People were freaking out, and you calmed them down.”

Jack frowns. “I crushed their hopes and dreams by getting rid of the non-standard anonymous request form. I don’t see how that qualifies as ‘calming them down.’”

“You identified a specific point of weakness and offered a solution,” McDavid counters. “And it made everyone feel a lot better. In fact,” McDavid smirks. “I think you officially became the Dad of student council today, Jack.”

Jack comes to a halt, staring at McDavid in horror. “What? No. _What?_ ”

“Yup,” McDavid grins, popping his ‘p’. 

“That’s—that’s _ludicrous_ ,” Jack hisses. “And besides, if anyone’s the Dad of student council, it’s you, McDavid.” This is a disaster. Jack was just trying to stop their inbox from being flooded with dick pics and crude jokes. He didn’t mean to _reassure_ anybody.

“Actually, Jack, you’ll find that I’m the Mom of student council,” McDavid corrects, smirking. “Anyways, congrats on your new children. Don’t be surprised if you start getting texts from them.” 

“Texts?” Jack repeats blankly. “McDavid, what do you mean by _texts._ What kind of texts?” 

McDavid just giggles, turning away. “Oh, you’ll see,” he says airily, waving his hand in the air.

“ _McDavid, explain yourself,”_ Jack snarls as McDavid bounces away. 

“Have fun, sweetie,” McDavid calls out, laughing as he goes. 

Jack watches him disappear around a corner. Jack fucking _knew it._ Under that angelic facade was an evil demon who tricked Jack into possibly acquiring the trust and admiration of a group of very whiny, neurotic teenage perfectionists. 

Jack’s phone buzzes. 

**miranda f (henchwoman #2):** hey jack!! brock boeser requested a chocolate fondue fountain--do you think we can swing that?? 1:17 PM

 **miranda f (henchwoman #2)** : maybe that falls under the unrealistic category 🤔1:17 PM

 **miranda f (henchwoman #2):** it’s kind of super important for his lonely hearts proposal tho :/ 1:17 PM

 **miranda f (henchwoman #2)** : which is SUPER cute btw omg i hope we can make it work 🥺🥺 1:18 PM

Oh _no._


	4. Chapter 4

“What the _hell_ is that?” Jack asks blankly. The canvas in front of him is streaked with angry reds and blacks, forming a violent, shapeless _scary_ blob. What the _fuck_. The whole point of Noah having his own senior studio space is that Jack has a place to _escape_ the horrors of Oakmont High—he didn’t march his ass across campus to get traumatized during his lunch break. 

“I call it _The Endless Death March of Capitalism_ ,” Noah says brightly, taking his paint-streaked apron off with a flourish to reveal his typical all-black attire. 

“It’s _hideous_ ,” Jack says in disgust, shuddering. 

“Exactly,” Noah beams. 

“You know, I think I liked it better when you were in your still-life phase,” Jack says dryly, shoving aside an assortment of paintbrushes to set his backpack down on the table. It had involved a fair amount of Noah stealing his oranges at lunch because “inspiration waits for no one”, but fruit burglary is still preferable to _trauma._

“Art is supposed to challenge you, Jackson,” Noah says airly.

“Challenge me, fine,” Jack says. “Not give me _nightmares_ , Jesus.” 

“You say nightmares, I say deep and meaningful penetration into your inner psyche,” Noah says sagely.

“Okay _comrade_ , well I need you to put your dreams of toppling the bourgeoisie on hold for a second—I’m having a crisis,” Jack says, sighing. “How do I make student council think I’m unapproachable?”

“Er, have you tried being yourself?” Noah says, scratching his head. 

“ _Yes_ ,” Jack says morosely. "It just encourages them. I think they find it _endearing_." Jack had tried to project extra "don’t-fuck-with-me" vibes last meeting, and Miranda actually said she "admired his strong presence." Jack used to _intimidate_ people, goddammit. Now every time he says something sarcastic, student counc-hell actually _laughs_ instead of shooting him dirty looks. It’s frankly horrifying. 

And because the universe hates him, Jack’s phone goes off with a text.

**Ethan 🐻 (henchman #3):** SOS 12:11 PM 

**Ethan 🐻 (henchman #3):** having a meeting with orchestra and choir re: serenades and nolan p and mitch marner are in some kind of weird ass stare off 12:11 PM

 **Ethan 🐻 (henchman #3):** no one has moved in like ten minutes things are getting freaky pls help 😭12:11 PM 

Jack makes a strangled noise. “I’m sorry,” Noah says, raising a brow. “Was that supposed to be English?”

“How did _I_ become the fairy godmother of conflict resolution?” Jack asks despairingly. 

“Let me guess,” Noah says. “The McMinions are calling?”

“They want me to mediate some war of attrition between Orchestra and Choir,” Jack says, feeling vaguely horrified at the words leaving his mouth, because they sound like the plot description for a horrible, low-budget B movie Jack would rather die than watch, but _oh yeah_ actually they’re describing his _life._ Go fucking figure. “Quick, help me come up with something scathing to say so I can get out of this.” 

He has AP Calc BC with Marner and the kid’s relentless enthusiasm drains Jack’s soul to a withered husk. He _bounces_ in his seat, for fuck’s sake. And Nolan Patrick destroyed their table. Which destroyed their budget. In a roundabout way, he’s responsible for the very existence of the Cupid Committee, which doesn’t exactly put him in Jack’s good books. This is a disaster waiting to happen. 

Noah swipes Jack’s phone out of his hands. “Don’t worry, I got you,” he says, typing something out on Jack’s phone before he can blink, handing it back after he sends a text. Jack looks down at his phone. 

**Jack:** b there soon 12:13 PM 

“What the _fuck,_ Hanifin?” Jack hisses, glaring at Noah’s irritatingly unrepentant face. 

Noah shrugs. “I personally find it charming that Student Council has imprinted on you, and I think this is an excellent personal growth opportunity,” he says wisely, sounding eerily like Jack’s college counselor. 

Jack splutters. “ _Personal growth oppor_ —I don’t need to ‘grow,’ I am _perfectly_ content being emotionally unavailable!” Noah just winks and ruffles Jack’s hair, which is just fucking _rude_ —Noah knows about Jack’s curls’ unfortunate flirtation with frizz. Jack bats Noah’s hands away. “Quit that, you’re going to get your terrifying paint in my hair.” 

“You say that like it would make your hair look worse, which isn’t humanly possible,” Noah says pleasantly, ushering Jack towards the door. “Now go get ‘em soldier,” he says with a cheery wave, shoving Jack out and slamming the door shut behind him. 

“You’re going to pay for this,” Jack yells at the door. “I’m officially putting you on calligraphy duty for the love notes so I hope you enjoy hand cramps and reading shitty poetry!” There’s no response but a loud cackle. 

Worst. Best friend. _Ever._

* * *

McDavid’s sitting with the track team when Jack finds him in the cafeteria, because of _course_ the bastard has to be athletically gifted in addition to being book-smart and made of sunshine and puppies and shit. “McDavid,” he says stiffly, stopping in front of the table. “I need to talk to you.” McDavid startles and turns around, eyes landing on Jack. 

“Jack!” he says, a wide smile stretching across his lips. “Hi!” And then something weird happens—the whole table goes silent and then _stares_ up at Jack like he’s some sort of freaky zoo exhibit. One of them—Neal—says something under his breath and the rest of the table erupts into low snickers while McDavid goes bright pink. 

Jack squints suspiciously, torn between the absurd desire to run away or to say something withering. He doesn’t claim to be an expert on the psychology of the average high school jock, but watching Yamamoto blink up at him like he has horns growing out of his head leads Jack to believe that this is some _highly_ fucking abnormal behavior that’s beyond the standard scope of nonsense for testosterone-infested meathead athletes. 

McDavid must feel the same way, because he quickly stands up and shoots the table a dirty look, and _wow,_ Jack didn’t know he had that in him. It makes him look more like an angry kitten than anything else, but the effort is impressive nonetheless. 

He turns towards Jack. “Sorry, let’s go.” Jack can feel eyes on them as they walk out of the cafeteria to the hallway. “What’s up?” McDavid says when they find a spot to stand. He had texted McDavid asking him where he was upon receiving another alarming message from Ethan, figuring it would be easier to explain the shit show face-to-face. 

Jack sighs. “Apparently Orchestra and Choir are having some sort of epic standoff regarding the serenades. Ethan sounds like he’s on the verge of a breakdown.”

Instead of panicking the way Jack thought he would, McDavid actually _smiles._ “He asked you to help, huh?” he says, sounding quietly pleased. “Told you you’re the Dad.” And then he actually punches Jack on the arm, like they’re _bros_ or something. Great, now McDavid has him appropriating jock language. 

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response,” Jack says archly, strangely aware of where McDavid’s knuckles had grazed his skin. “ _Anyway_ , you need to come with me.” McDavid raises his brows.

Jack sighs. “Diplomacy isn’t exactly my strong suit,” he says grudgingly. 

“You want me to play good cop to your bad cop, eh?” McDavid says, grinning. 

Jack rolls his eyes. “Sure, if you want to put it that way,” he says. His pride is stinging at having to ask McDavid for help, but the last thing he wants to do is somehow start a three-way war between Student Council, Orchestra, and Choir. Who the hell would do the serenades then? Jack has a flash of him and McDavid duetting “ _You’re the One that I Want”_ to some unsuspecting sophomore during Pre-Calc and promptly shudders. 

McDavid doesn’t groan or protest or _anything_ —he actually looks _excited_ for some psychotic reason. Jack has always suspected McDavid probably has a massive boner for world peace, but such blatant enthusiasm at the prospect of arbitrating what is no doubt the world’s most idiotic pissing match is absolutely baffling. 

“I’m in,” McDavid says, “Let’s do this.” He sounds all _determined_ and shit, like he and Jack are about to set off to defuse a bomb or rescue someone from a burning building. Normally, it would probably piss Jack off, but this time, he’s too relieved to be annoyed. 

“Alright,” Jack says. “Let’s do this.” 

Here goes nothing. 

**Author's Note:**

> Something I've been writing to put myself in a good mood. Having a ton of fun sorting NHLers into the various echelons of high school social spheres haha
> 
> Comments are love <3
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr ](https://tarcanza.tumblr.com/) for updates and also on [Twitter ](https://twitter.com/tarcanza). Come say hi!


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